


Last of the Elvhenan

by THE_EVIL_CLIFFIE



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: F/F, tragic mages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1648571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THE_EVIL_CLIFFIE/pseuds/THE_EVIL_CLIFFIE
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the brief, crystal-spun moment between her life and her death, she remembers old Haskell's voice:</p><p>"Listen close, girl. They say things weren't always this way for us. They say that once, the elves lived free."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last of the Elvhenan

They say your entire life flashes before your eyes before you die.

_“Listen close, girl.”_

She remembers old Haskell’s voice, clear and strong, as if he were standing in front of her. She remembers the scent of cinnamon and the tolling of the chantry-bell along with the voice, floating over the memory like flotsam on the tide.

_"They say things weren’t always this way for us.”_

She remembers the shade of Haskell’s awning, Val Royeaux’s sunlight stained crimson by the faded cloth. She remembers the candles: greasy, guttering things made from whale oil that gave off more smoke than light.

_“They say that once, the elves lived free.”_

She remembers the bustle and cries of the market, the shouts of traders and the music spilling from the windows. She remembers the Chant of Light, echoing down from the Grand Cathedral. She remembers the songs of the other elves, the poems in a language that should not have been foreign to her.

_“Long ago, in Elvhenan – that’s what our realm was called – the elvhen lived without fear of the shemlen, because they had not yet come to Thedas.”_

She remembers the other elves – Irria and Larden and little Olisha who braided flowers in her hair. She remembers Lea, pretty, laughing Lea whose hair shone like the sun when she danced in front of the fire.

_“They lived free, and they lived forever. Because before the shemlen came, our race knew no mortal death.”_

She remembers how Lea’s lips had felt on her own for that brief, shining instant between her childhood and the life she’d led for seven years since.

_“They lived with one with nature, one with magic. No demons menaced them; no Templars came to take their children-”_

She remembers a significant glance in her direction. She remembers falling into the mud of the alienage floor as Lea pushed her away, clutching at the sunburst medallion around her neck, quoting prayers at her.

_“They did not have to die, but when they wished to cease the steady progression of years, to stop making memories, to depart beyond the Veil and walk with Falon’Din and Dirthamen, the twin children of Mythal, they would lay down in a long sleep.”_

She remembers staring at Master Faleur’s forge until it fire leapt up from the ash-filled pit, roaring hot enough to melt iron. She remembers watching the flames dancing orange and red and yellow and green, mauve and turquoise and violet and aquamarine.

_“They called it Uthenera.”_

She remembers Jacques, Faleur’s son, walking in on her as she concentrated on the flames. She remembers being pressed up against the wall, a dagger to her throat. She remembers Faleur’s mark on the blade, just above the crossguard. She remembers the stink of liquor on his breath, his palm sliding up her leg, under her dress.

_“They’d make it an event, but not like a funeral. Their family and friends would gather ‘round in a special-made chamber – not built from stone or dug into the ground as the shems or the dwarves do, but sung from living wood – and they’d say their farewells.”_

She remembers Jacques hissing into her ear, to be a good little elf-bitch and stay quiet or he’d call the Templars in to kill her and her family. She remembers the rush of fear, fear of the Templars, the men in the shining armour with swords that would bring swift, bloody retribution to her for merely existing. She remembers the fear of this man, barely older than she was, who could do whatever he liked to her because he was a shem and she was an elf, because his ears were flat and hers were pointed and so no Prévôt would listen if she told them what he’d done to her, and most would decide that she deserved them some of the same.

_“And they had whole buildings made out of these rooms in their cities. Not cities like Val Royeaux or Nevarra, but cities spun from the forests and the earth. Cities like Arlathan.”_

She remembers the fear flashing hot within her, transmuting to rage as he put his hand to his britches. She remembers letting the energy flow through her, reaching for it in a way she never had before. She remembers snarling, pushing him away. She remembers his laugh, cut off when his knife flew out of his hand and embedded itself in the stone wall. She remembers the wet _crack_ he’d made as he hit the wall. She remembers his curse as he snatched up a fresh-forged sword.

_“Arlathan was our jewel, our Val Royeaux. It was there we made our home, and it was there that the Tevinters destroyed us.”_

She remembers the flames, leaping not from ashes this time, but from her fingertips. She remembers the pain as the heat burned her hands, blistering her skin to red weals. She remembers Jacques’ screams, the sickly-sweet smell of his charred flesh. She remembers the roar of the flames around her as the rest of the building went up.

_“You don’t know the story? Well, old Haskell’s tired now, and his throat is parched. Get me some wine, girl. Any sour old swill will do.”_

She remembers walking back to the Alienage through the market. She remembers the realisation, intruding upon her conscious mind for the first time. She remembers being alone in the crowd, doubly removed from the shems that jostled around her, knife-ears and mage, two identities layered upon one another; one apparent to all, one kept secret on pain of death.

_“Ah, you found some, did you? You’ve always been a clever child. I doubt that shemlen merchant will realise ‘til he’s long out of the city. Don’t look at me like that. Old Haskell still has his sight.”_

She remembers the day the Templars came for her. She remembers her mother’s shriek as the door caved in, remembers her father’s shouts as he put himself between the Divine’s knights and his family.

_“Now, where was I? What? Ah, yes, the Tevinters. The thrice-damned Tevinters.”_

She remembers the flash of torchlight upon steel, the coppery tang in the air, the warmth of her father’s blood across her face. She remembers the iron grip around her arm, the sword to her throat. She remembers blood, papa’s blood, red and thick, matting her hair and crusting her mouth. She remembers Lea, lit only by firelight, barely visible across the space where the Venadahl had once stood, her hands clutching the sun medallion, the symbol of Blessed Andraste, mouthing _I’m sorry_ , as if that would wash away the blood and the death.

_“See, the Tevinters came from a land to the north of Elvhenan, what we now call Par Vollen. Yes, where the Qunari live now.”_

She remembers the hemp bag over her head, the rope around her wrists, the snippets from the Chant that the Templars said to each other: _magic was made to serve man, never to rule over him_. She remembers the jeers and catcalls, flung from unseen mouths.

_“They came, and they were mortal. The Elvhen called them Shemlen, which means ‘quicklings’. They brought diseases with them, and the Elvhen could not adapt. For the first time, Elves died on their own, without their lives being ended.”_

She remembers being shut in a cell, her hands still bound, the sack still over her head, her father’s blood still on her face and in her hair and in her mouth. She remembers trying to spit it out, but all that achieved was a mouthful of hemp. She remembers wondering why they hadn’t just killed her; she was an Apostate, after all.

_“The Elvhen moved to isolate themselves, to avoid the Shemlen as much as they could, but all that did was allow the Tevinters to grow. Had they attacked, they could have driven the Tevinters into the sea and destroyed them, but they did not.”_

She remembers being brought to a high, vaulted chamber. She remembers the tribunal, four shems and an elf, ten Templars behind them. She remembers being asked questions: how long she’d known about her magic, how she’d used it, if she’d ever hurt anyone with it. She remembers lying.

_“See, the Tevinters were powerful, and greedy. They wanted the lands of Elvhenan for their own, and they were jealous of the magic the Elves had.”_

She remembers the training, endless hours under the scrutiny of Enchanters and knights. She remembers the dormitories; she’d thought once that no-one could have less privacy than a denizen of the Alienage, packed in with ten thousand other elves in a space no smaller than an acre. She remembers being wrong.

_“So they drank Lyrium, magic made manifest, and crossed the veil to attack those who had entered Uthenera. They enslaved thousands of the Elvhen and marched on Arlathan itself.”_

She remembers the first time she’d had to relieve herself in front of everyone else, since there was no door on the privy. She remembers how the other apprentices had laughed at the knife-ears who couldn’t read, who didn’t know an illusion from a cleansing. She remembers the stares of the Templars, judgemental and stern and, in some, just a little hungry, although she’d never been able to tell if that was for her body or her death.

_“The Elvhen tried to flee, since they were a peaceful race. That didn’t stop the Tevinters. The first of their magisters called magic – blood magic - to themselves, and they broke Arlathan, sunk it into the ground where no-one, Elvhen or shem, has been able to find it since.”_

She remembers Lily. She remembers the long evenings, when the candles had burned low, when Lily had traced her fingers over the writing on the pages, helped her learn to understand them. She remembers their little alcove in the library, which provided a little privacy. She remembers Lily telling her to keep her eyes on the book, when all she wanted to look at was the human’s. She remembers they were green like the emeralds she’d seen once on the fingers of a fat merchant.

_“We were the Tevinters’ slaves for eight hundred years. Thousands died under their whips. They founded a city just to buy and sell us – they called it the city of chains. You know it as Kirkwall.”_

She remembers that she and Lily had their Harrowings one after the other. She remembers Lily sitting on the bench waiting to be called in; her face was strained, white, her eyes darting around in fear. She remembers being called in, walking out to face the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander. She remembers being told what the Harrowing entailed; her knees had gone weak with fear.

_“It was like that for so long, until Blessed Andraste rose up against the Tevinters. And you know what? You know what the Shems don’t tell you? The Elvhen rose with her. You ever heard of Shartan, girl?”_

She remembers the Fade, the shifting, whispering dreamscape, the way the sky flexed and bent weirdly, far off, on what would in the real world have been the horizon, she glimpsed the Black City itself. She remembers the demons there, spirits of rage and pride and lust. She remembers one of them pressed itself up against her back and spoke scandalous things into her ear in Lily’s voice.

_"Ah, well, that’s no surprise. It’s not in the Shems’ best interest for you to know of Shartan. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Y’see, the Tevinters damned themselves three times: once when they destroyed Elvhenen and buried Arlathan, once when they began the use of blood magic and consorted with demons, and once when they tried to invade the Golden City.”_

She remembers returning, gasping, her body slick with sweat and her limbs shaky as if she’d just run from Rivain to Ferelden. She remembers opening her eyes to see the Knight-Commander, his sword ready for a beheading stroke; she collapsed to the floor with a whimper.

_"The Magisters of old Tevinter were proud and powerful creatures, and those with power always want more. The greatest of them, the vainest and cruellest and strongest of all, they decided that they would assail the Maker in His Golden City itself, to drain His blood and use it to fuel their unholy rituals.”_

She remembers waiting for Lily, leaning against the cold stone of the wall as Ser Henric watched her, one hand on his sword-hilt. She remembers the door opening, Lily stepping out; she was shivering, her face pale. She remembers acting on instinct. She remembers not thinking. She remembers kissing Lily, in front of the First Enchanter and the Knight-Commander. She remembers Ser Henric’s leer as Lily kissed her back.

_“They sacrificed ten thousand slaves to make a portal, burned through a mound of lyrium as high as the walls of the Alienage to touch divinity. And when they reached it, when they set foot in the Golden City, it didn’t welcome them.”_

She remembers they got their own room, but only because the third girl had been killed the previous week while trying to escape. She remembers the rumour was that she hadn’t been attempting an escape, just refusing to give in to one of the Templars. She remembers Lily’s gasps, her hands, her lips on her own. She remembers falling asleep in Lily’s arms and thinking that maybe being a mage wasn’t a punishment after all.

_“Wherever they touched, wherever their feet trod upon that sacred ground, shrivelled and turned black, and that corruption spread. Within an instant, the Golden City, the Maker’s own domain, had turned into the Black City.”_

She remembers the Tranquil; their monotone, plodding speech, their simple obedience of the Templars, the sunburst brand on their foreheads. She remembers asking Czary why he had been made Tranquil: he replied _I do not know._ She remembers him saying _I was almost certainly a danger._ She remembers avoiding Czary after that.

_“They had brought death to heaven, and so the Maker cast them out and accursed them to forms so twisted and hideous that all would know their sin and all would cast them out. They became Darkspawn, and they became a Blight upon old Tevinter that almost tore it apart.”_

She remembers talking to Lily about it, always in hushed tones so the new girl didn’t hear. She remembers railing against the Templars in whispers, telling Lily how they were like the rest of the shemlen, but worse because they oppressed their own kind. She remembers Lily asking _I’m not a shemlen, am I?_

_“The Blight ravaged the land until the Grey Wardens came, driving the Darkspawn back into the Deep Roads. But the damage had been done; Tevinter was broken. And from the ashes of the old Imperium came the prophet Andraste.”_

She remembers the first time she found one of the pamphlets, talking of how Mages could be free. She remembers it had been written by someone from the Anderfels; she wondered if they had Circles there. She remembers finding out that the Grey Wardens were not bound by the rules of the Chantry, and that they would take anyone, noble or thief, elf or dwarf or shemlen, Circle mage or apostate or maleficar.

_“Andraste was a tribal queen from Ferelden that the Maker spoke to, who He raised up to defeat the wicked Magisters of Tevinter. And when she rose, when she led the Almarri tribes against the Imperium, the Elvhen rose with her.”_

She remembers telling Lily, whispering into her ear after they’d made love. She remembers saying they could escape, that if they could get out of the White Spire and to the Wardens’ compound they would be free of the Chantry, of the Templars. She remembers Lily’s arguments against it, good arguments, sane arguments, but she couldn’t forget the gleam in her lover’s eye.

_“The leader of the Elvhen, Andraste’s chief lieutenant, well, he was called Shartan. He was a great warrior and he and his followers killed many of the magisters.”_

She remembers the planning, marking entrances and exits, the routines of the Templars in her mind. She remembers thinking that the memory exercises she’d been forced to do for hours on end were finally proving of use. She remembers practicing the spells they would need over and over, until she could freeze an object solid at twenty paces; in retrospect, that was almost certainly what gave them away.

_“And that’s not all the shemlen don’t tell you, girl. I know your secret. No, don’t run. Haskell’s been among the Dalish, he has, and he knows that the Gift is not always a curse. There’s another thing that most all of the Chantry will refuse to say. Everyone ‘cept th’Imperial Chantry, ironically.”_

She remembers running, hand-in-hand with Lily, their phylacteries in their hands. She remembers throwing the cursed things out a window before diving out after them. She remembers Lily’s scream and her own whoop of excitement as she called the winds to aid them. She remembers descending the last few feet gently into a swirling cloud of dust, then igniting the air behind them to drive off the Templars.

_“See, the Tevinters didn’t like the idea that some barbarian tribeswoman could break their empire, even if they did burn her at the stake. The Magisters especially hated the idea that the Maker spoke through her, and they thought that maybe she was just an especially Gifted mage.”_

She remembers clearing the way before them with fire and lightning, splitting the earth beneath the Templar’s feet to swallow them up, calling blizzards up from nowhere to blind and confound their pursuers. She remembers the sight of the Grey Warden’s compound, the Griffon banner a symbol of deliverance.

_“So don’t despair, girl. You’re not wrong. You’re not sinful. You aren’t a punishment inflicted upon us. You’re just as much a child of the Maker as them in their high cathedrals, and He loves all his children equally.”_

She remembers the pain as a Templar sword bit into her calf. She remembers falling. She remembers screaming at Lily to run, to reach the Warden’s gate that was even now closing. She remembers looking up and seeing the Commander of the Grey on the high wall, the blue-and-white Griffon emblazoned across his chest. She remembers, as she turned to deliver a blast of fire hotter than the sun to the Templar who reached her, seeing him nod to her in respect. She remembers what that means: _we will protect her_.

_“There’s a lot of people, shems and Elvhen, who’ll try to hurt you, to kill you, to take your freedom, to make you an animal. But remember this, girl: you are who you choose to be. They can hurt you. They can kill you, they can lock you up. But they can never make you choose to be their slave. Blessed Andraste and Shartan her champion saw to that.”_

She gropes in the dirt, dimly aware of Lily’s screams as the Wardens drag her to safety. Her hand hits something; a knife. She rises to one knee, realises with a start that it bears Faleur’s mark. If she weren’t about to die she’d laugh. She reaches into her power, sends her voice across to Lily, speaks to her one last time.

“I love you.”

She raises the knife. The Templar in front of her halts, sword raised. He’s not wearing a helmet; it’s Ser Henric, a leering smile on his face. Others move up behind him, ready to kill her or drag her back to be made Tranquil.

There’s been something nagging at the edge of her awareness for the last few minutes, a voice that sounds eerily similar to the ones she heard all those months ago in her Harrowing. It says _I can help. You only have to let me in._

She does.

She smiles, a wolfish hunter’s grin, the same grin the Tevinters must have seen when Shartan caught them.

She raises the knife. So simple, really, seeing where the power she needed lay. She knows what will happen when she does this, knows that not even the Grey Wardens will be able to shelter her. Best make sure she doesn’t survive, then.

Ser Henric’s leer turns to horror.

She brings the knife down, slashes straight down her wrist. Blood, gushing and thick, spurts out. She flings her arm out, spattering Henric and the Templars with it. She reaches down, into the hot, electric place inside her, the place she’s always run to when she was hurt or scared or wanted to lash out. She reaches into that, and into the power flowing out through her veins, pure and primal, reaches into the darkest reaches of the Fade and calls forth every scrap of magic she can.

She speaks, a scrap of doggerel she’d heard the Templars use.

“The righteous shall stand before the darkness, and the Maker shall guide their hand.”

Lightning courses through her blood, leaping from drop to drop. The world burns to shades of blue and white.

_“For we are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit.”_


End file.
